Learn to Live
by Robin Birdie
Summary: Wade is unable to cope with the pain. (One-Shot).
**Learn to Live**

' _I'm afraid everything is fine.'_

 _Wade felt his heart sink. The room was so cold and sterile; the walls were white, the bed was covered with an equally white sheet, and – every time Bruce moved – that stupid leather chair would let out an angry squeak in protest. It wasn't that he wanted anything to be wrong, not_ per se _, but just that he wanted something that could be fixed. He leaned his scarred arm upon the desk, as he leaned in towards the good doctor._

 _There was a look of sympathy from Bruce; his face was pulled into a frown that emphasised his new wrinkles, while his smile looked that fucking pitiable one most professionals wore, and he bent over in his usual manner, as if he were hiding in on himself. Wade felt the anxiety settle over him. The air felt impossibly hot, as the room suffocated him with the heating on and every window closed, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. He probably looked a mess. Couldn't stop crying. Felt like a fucking child._

' _What you on about?' Wade asked._

' _Wade, I know you're in a lot of pain, and I don't want to trivialise that,' Bruce explained patiently. 'I just can't find anything actually . . . well . . . wrong. Yeah, there's the – uh – skin cancer, but it's being kept in check by your healing factor. There's nothing else there. I think the pain should pass in time . . . maybe give it a week or so?'_

' _I gave it "a week or so", for fuck's sake! I gave it "a week or so" the last time I came to you, the time before that when I saw Strange, time before that when I saw that specialist with S.H.I.E.L.D.! I keep giving it fucking time! How much time does it take?'_

' _The fact is that there isn't anything anyone can do for you. The pain is bad, yes, but you won't die from this, I promise. I can give you something else for the pain, but – if what you've told me is right – it probably won't do much good . . . the medicines you've – ah – taken already are pretty much what we'd usually give to people in your condition, while the dose is as high as we dare give it, even with your fast metabolism and healing factor.'_

 _Wade felt his stomach churn in that all too familiar way. The place where skin met muscle burned like crazy, like someone had set fire right underneath him, and the stabbing pains over his scars reminded him that something was wrong. It was right at the precipice. He knew it could go either way: it could fade away or become truly agonising. It was like Nature's way of warning him something bad was coming up. Made him afraid to sleep or move or breathe. Couldn't enjoy the moment knowing what was coming up._

' _Are you shitting me?' Wade asked. 'Do you know how bad it gets? It feels like someone's tearing into my skin with a scalpel, like I can swear I feel blood at times, and you're telling me that I have to live the next fifty or sixty or a zillion years like this? There's no end, no cure, and no hope? I'm supposed to be happy like this?'_

' _I know things seem rough right now for you, but . . .'_

 _The next words kick-started a blinding rage:_

' _. . . you have to learn to live with it.'_

* * *

The gun was cold in his hands.

It felt wrong somehow. He was mortal now, which meant this wasn't the same. It was one thing to chase the dream, as well as to want what he couldn't have, but now it was literally in his grasp and there was an actual choice to be made. There were – what was the word? – _ramifications_. The problem was that this wasn't a choice between life and death, but rather pain and sweet release. He needed that release. He forgot how it felt to be free.

The bathroom tiles were uncomfortable to lean against; Petey had insisted on some intricate shit, built out of different sized pieces all pieced together like a mosaic, and they were so freaking white that the blood would really stand out. He didn't want to make a mess. He wondered whether Petey would be left scrubbing the blood on hands and knees, or whether he would spend a fortune getting specialist cleaners in, and Petey always got pissed when Wade left coaster rings, let alone brain matter over the walls. It felt mean.

Wade let out a broken sob.

His eyes stung. The tears must have picked up some sweat, maybe the sweat had picked up some of the skin lotions, but the last thing he needed was a new pain on top of the old, like his body existed only to serve as a medley for various types of aches and burns and pains, and if this were his purpose -? _Fuck_. The gun felt heavier than usual, almost like a loaded weight in his hands, and he felt scared. He felt fucking scared.

"Ow, it hurts. Ow, it hurts. Ow, it hurts."

Wade lifted the gun to just underneath his chin; the metal pressed painfully against an open sore, so that he swore he could feel iron and salt poured into his wound, and he felt that familiar electricity course through him. He threw back his head and began to pant with exertion, unable to endure what he had endured for decades already.

"Not again. Not again."

Wade swallowed hard.

* * *

' _Are you just going to leave?'_

 _Preston rested her hands upon her hips. The wind was picking up pretty bad, enough that each breeze sent tiny pinpricks of pain over his skin, and he wondered whether that was normal for most people or only himself. He couldn't remember what it was like to be without pain. It felt like those sleepless nights stretched on forever, both directions, so that he was born in the same way that he would die: in pain. He pursed his lips._

' _She'd be better off without me,' he muttered._

 _The garden was the typical suburban sight, filled with various scents of nature that made him feel a bit sick, and he saw the swing set over in the corner where Ellie played. It always made him smile to see her. He knew she would grow up to become a beautiful woman, one that could possibly even change the world, and he admired her strength and courage, but – despite that love for her – he knew he was a corrupting force in her life. No child deserved someone like him around, especially when he couldn't do what others could._

 _He knew that she would forget him in time; after all, it wasn't as though he could be a real father to her as things stood. It was hard to be all she needed, not when he couldn't walk down a street without being stared at or eat in a restaurant without putting people off eating, and he couldn't do a lot with his cancer. There was so much he failed at, so much that she could get elsewhere from other people. She deserved better._

' _That girl needs stability, Wade.'_

' _Yeah, well, she won't fucking get that from me.'_

 _Wade reached up to scratch at his neck. He caught a scab and felt it bleed, so that the blood stuck under his nails and trailed down his back, and soon there came that awful sticky feeling of clothing attaching to broken skin. Preston gave an almost imperceptible wince, enough that Wade might have missed the nostril flare and pull of the lips had he not been so used to seeing such things elsewhere. He spat on the floor, as he looked away._

' _You're a good man, Wade.' Preston gave a sad smile. 'You forget that I saw inside your mind, so I know what you're doing. You're pushing her away, so that you don't have to fear losing her, but it's self-fulfilling. Don't do this to yourself.'_

' _It'll be easier on her. We all got to go eventually, eh?'_

' _You're choosing to go. There's a difference.'_

 _It was hard not to let the emotion show, as he felt something like a punch to his gut. There was an intense wave of guilt, but also of frustration and resentment, because – if she knew what he had planned – she would try to stop him, possibly even using Ellie against him, and he would be forced to think about the emotional agony that would cause them. He wondered why it would be selfish to leave, even to die, because didn't his happiness matter, too? Why did they want him to suffer? Why want him to live in pain just so they_ had _him there?_

' _You don't know shit, Preston,' he said sadly._

 _Wade walked away._

* * *

"Wade? Wade! D-don't do it!"

Peter stood in the doorway to the bathroom; it was hard to see him through the tears, so he appeared like a blurred ghost caught between dimensions, but his hair was mussed up and his cheeks were white as snow. He let his hand hang in the air. It was half-reached out to Wade, as if he could somehow snatch away the gun before Wade could pull the trigger, but he was out of costume and out of time. Wade felt the tears run down his face.

"Thought you were on vacation," muttered Wade.

"I came back. My spider-sense –"

There were sounds from outside. Peter must have left the door open to the apartment, as he could hear the neighbours laughing from their doors, some music played somewhere else, and life went on and it would continue to go on. Life would go on without him, but the pain wouldn't go on. The pain would stop. Wade laughed and said:

"Why'd you come back?"

* * *

' _Have you tried a change to your skincare routine?'_

 _It was always nice in May's home. The heating was always kept warm, so that his skin didn't get too dry and cracked, and he liked the way she scented the home with various perfumes and potpourri, so that he didn't have to feel as paranoid about his possible odour. There was always a horrible smell from the creams he used, as well as the various soaps and topical medicines, and he feared offending her in any way. He liked her._

 _The only problem was sitting in her kitchen; he disliked sitting when the pain was so bad, because everything seized up and became stiff, while pacing or rocking helped keep things – well – moving about enough to relax. He learned a long time ago that the constant movement annoyed people, though, enough that they would get snippy or agitated, and he didn't want to put May in an awkward position. He only had to bear it this one last time. He only had to say goodbye without her realising it was a goodbye, so she wouldn't try to stop him._

' _Tried everything,' he whispered._

' _I hear aloe vera is great for skin troubles,' said May kindly._

' _Yeah, I know.' Wade tried to be patient. 'Petey and I tried that one, too, got a friend o' his that's got a business with the stuff. It didn't help. It's why we went to a doctor friend of his for some steroid stuff, but that seems t' make it worse. Not much left.'_

' _Oh, well, what about vitamin E oil? That might work.'_

' _Yeah, I guess I can try that.'_

 _There was no point in explaining he already had tried that; everyone wanted to help, everyone had an opinion on how best to get healthy, and everyone had some sort of magic remedy that he had already tried ten times over. The only one that really pissed him off was the one that went: 'if you just smile more and ignore it –'. He remembered breaking someone's jaw that evening, unable to stand any more 'good intentions'. Everyone knew his body better than he knew it. Nobody knew shit._

 _Wade raised the cup before him to his lips, finally remembering that he had been drinking some tea made by May herself, and it felt cold against his skin and tasted awful. The second the liquid touched his lips -? He felt a hideous burning sensation. There must have been an open cut that he hadn't noticed, enough that he wanted to laugh and cry and scream at once, because even eating was now a chore. He couldn't even drink properly._

 _He did the only thing he could do: he smiled._

* * *

The gun pressed under his chin.

He felt it tilt back his head, unaware of how much force he used, and he felt the cold tiles against his bare skull. There was a pain in his throat. It was tight and sore, mostly from retching and from crying, but it felt like nothing compared to the agony in his skin. Peter was hyperventilating from the doorway. The rushed panting broke Wade's heart. He didn't want Peter to see him this way, but there he was and there they were.

Peter dropped something to the ground. It rustled and Peter stumbled over it, before he fell to his knees with a sickening smashing sound, and Wade – as he glanced over in a daze – saw what looked like blood through his lover's jeans. The guilt coursed through him. He knew that Peter loved him, just as he loved Peter in turn, but the pain was screaming at his senses and he could focus on nothing else. It was hell. Every movement felt worse than the worst injuries of his life, so that he sobbed wondering what he did to deserve such a thing.

"Whatever you're going through will pass," begged Peter.

"Yeah, it always passes . . . always comes back."

"If – if it – if it comes back w-we can deal with it together." The tears marred Peter's beauty. "I swear that I'll help you through it all; I'm more than happy to play nurse, even – even will wear the costume if it makes you feel better . . . don't do this . . . please."

Wade felt his hand grow numb, as he let doubt seep in. There were pins and needles all over him, while his head felt light and somehow on the verge of sleep, and soon he would faint or scream all over again, while tears ran down his face and tasted like salt on his lips. He felt himself smile despite himself. Involuntary reaction. Heart racing, as a stab of pain jammed into his side. A reminder. He felt his resolved come back, as he pressed the gun right against his Adam's apple and held tightly onto the trigger. He couldn't go on like this.

There was a cry from Peter; he likely thought Wade had pulled the trigger, which led to relief when he realised this wasn't the case, and his soft lips let out a low sigh, as he fell onto his side and collapsed against the bathtub. Wade tried not to watch him. In a way, it would be nice that the very last thing he saw would be his hero and true love, but – likewise – he dreaded seeing that pain and dying knowing he was the one to cause it.

"I thought you were going to pull the trigger," gasped Peter.

Peter shuffled where he sat and began to weep. It was broken and pained, enough that Wade felt sick to his stomach knowing he was the direct cause, and he knew that – like everyone else in his life – Peter would do better without him. He deserved someone he could love without worry of causing pain, someone he could be seen with someone that –

"What would I do without you, Wade? What about the pain?"

"You'd learn to live with it . . ."

He pulled the trigger.


End file.
